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Two Mules Fighting Over A Turnip  By Steve, Hipsterpad.com    |Email| Football has always had a special place in my heart. Which is why it's so heavy on the near eve of Super Sunday this year. The Patriots have put Preparation-H on my give-a-damn; sure, I hope they lose, Brady comes up with a shattered femur in the first five downs, and some Giants fan leaps from the stands and beats Bellichek with a garden hose wrapped in barbed wire (while fisting Welker with a live rattlesnake). Honestly, odds are that ain't gonna happen unless we suddenly get sucked through a black hole and come out in a parallel universe. I can already see the pouty, dang it, man look on Eli Manning's face after his first of three interceptions, Michael Strahan's gap teeth widening from Matt Light's foot, and Moss constantly reminding Plaxico Burress that he won a ring with the Steelers. The whole scenario makes me physically ill, and I refuse to participate in what will surely amount to watching a paraplegic in an ass-kicking contest. I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that damn near anyone could achieve perfection if your opposition's defense is downloaded onto your i-pod. Well, maybe not the Raiders, but you're pickin' up what I'm puttin' down. That bloated, homeless looking tumor has placed a stigma on the word 'Coach'. Cheat to win, run up the score, don't shake hands, in fact, throw a shoulder, act like a pampered frat boy, strut around like your shit don't stink, and ignore the media. Certainly qualities I look for in a role model. This man is a festering fucking boil on football's forehead(due only to his visibility, otherwise I'd put the boil somewhere else). If you're a Pats fan, a lifelong one, fine. You stuck by them through the rough years(including the routing by the all-mighty '85 Bears), and I'll grant you a gnat's wing of reprieve. Conversely, if you jumped on the band wagon because you're sick of backing losers, do me a favor: Go to your room, put on your Brady jersey, drive or book a flight into NYC, walk into the first Irish pub you can find, and at the top of your lungs scream "Yer all a buncha fags!" The bouncer already locked the door behind you, the bartender is reaching calmly for the Louisville Slugger, and the patrons are quickly deciding where the line will form to make sure you'll be buried in the bloodiest, most tattered shiny piece of death wish ever to bear the name Reebok. You'll give the mortician the challenge of removing the remnants of seventy five broken pint glasses from your worthless face, if for no other reason than the world should see you(open casket)for what you were-a card carrying waste of skin. To anyone I've offended, get a helmet. To anyone I've connected with, you're welcome. Go Giants! - Steve - Rate This Post ! Sponsor This Post Currently 3.29/5 1 2 3 4 5 Rating: 3.3/5 (41 votes cast) Comments jessiegrrl And fuck'm if they can't take a joke! Colleen Ha. That was awesome. I admire the intensity of your fandom. *Name: Email: Notify me about new comments on this page Hide my email *Text:

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